


Five times Aziraphale didn't get to finish his meal (and one time he did)

by ginger_rude



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are Dicks (in general), Food, Gen, History, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: A selected history of interrupted meals, not necessarily nice or accurate.





	Five times Aziraphale didn't get to finish his meal (and one time he did)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first 5 & 1; not sure if it's usually kosher to break it into chapters, but the first bit was getting long, so, -shrug-.

1897 B.C.  
Gomorrah

It’s remarkable how much cooler it is inside the tavern. Perhaps it’s to do with the stone they build with in these cities, Aziraphale reflects. Anyway, it’s lovely, the walls striated in delicate shades of pink and cream and amber. He waits contentedly for his supper. The tavern owner approaches, tall, dark and—aesthetically pleasing. 

“My apologies. The boy is new. While you’re waiting, may I stand you a drink?”

“Why—“ Aziraphale hesitates. He doesn’t need the stern warnings from Above about fraternizing with humans; yes, he knows, it can lead to mission-jeopardizing attachments. Already he’s had to disentangle himself on several painful occasions. Still, it’s one drink. What harm could there be?

“…thank you, that’s very kind,” he finishes. The concoction the owner pours him is strong but heavily sweetened with date sugar. It has an ineffable tang; it conjures fantastic images: say, a phoenix building its nest of rare woods and spices. Aziraphale beams. The owner pulls up a stool.

“You’re not a local, are you? What brings you here?”

“I, ah,” says Aziraphale. “I’m a sort of…census taker, you might say.” The owner looks at him blankly. “You know. You sort of…thingy. Ask people questions, about their, their—For instance, one might ask, have you ever risen up and slain your brother with a rock? That sort of thing.” 

“Have I what?” says the owner. 

“No, you see, that was a hypothetical question, not _you_, you. The point is—ah, the point is—“ Aziraphale struggled to not be derailed by the owner’s steady, liquid-eyed gaze. He gives up as the roast, trailing clouds of smoke more seductive than the finest incense, is set before him. 

“Is that…?” He wafts the scent toward his nose. “This is fat-tailed lamb, isn’t it.”

“Everyone else does goat,” says the owner. “We like to think we serve a more discerning clientele.”

Aziraphale’s taken one bite—meltingly savory, with a fabulous charred crust redolent of herbs—when Gabriel comes in, stooping under the low doorway. He rises out of his seat in automatic deference to his superior, mouth full.

“Just the man I wanted to see! Hi. Excuse us.” Perfect smile firmly in place, Gabriel clamps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and propels the haplessly chewing angel outside.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says thickly. He swallows. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving, is what’s going on.” Gabriel’s still smiling and walking them away at a steady clip. A few people poke their heads out of tents as they pass. “As soon as we’re out of everyone’s sight.”

“But…“

“It’ll just make things worse if people see something that spooks them and make a run for it. We want to be thorough and quick.”

“…I was just sitting down to supper, and—Thorough and quick about what?”

“Destroying the cities of the plain, obviously,” says Gabriel. 

Aziraphale stares. “I thought we were trying to find righteous men. Ten, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” says Gabriel, with the air of someone who suffers fools only because it’s part of the job description, “and why did you think we were looking for ten righteous men?”

“For a…minyan?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. Azariphale’s beginning to get a crick in his neck from the inexorable arm. 

“But,” he says, “why are we destroying the cities?”

“Because they’re sinful.”

“Isn’t that a bit nonspecific?”

“The LORD,” says Gabriel, and Aziraphale can hear every capital, “the LORD is vexed, mightily, with the cities of the plain. Now Abraham—“

“Sorry, who?”

“—petitioned the LORD,” Gabriel persists through smilingly gritted teeth, “and said: ‘surely, LORD, you do not want to kill the righteous with the unrighteous. Will you spare the cities if there are fifty righteous men?’ And the LORD was merciful, yea, and even so, did Abraham bargain the LORD down to ten men.”

“Oh, right, _that_ Abraham. Well, that seems reasonable. Of, of the LORD. Yea.”

“Indeed,” says Gabriel, “which is why you and your colleagues were assigned here. Your colleagues”—Gabriel emphasizes the word—“found only one, count 'em, one righteous man. He gets a head start out of here. Everyone else…” Gabriel makes a “kaboom” gesture and noise.

“I don’t understand,” says Aziraphale, beginning to feel a familiar sinking sensation. “We’re not done looking, are we? I’d barely got started.”

“Yes,” says Gabriel. “While you were” —he makes a distasteful moue— “_eating,_ your colleagues unearthed an evil in Sodom so profound, so ubiquitous, that action became inevitable.” 

“But look here, what did everyone _do?_”

“The angels, posing as human foreigners, were invited to stay as guests in the home of the one righteous man, Lot. All the other men of Sodom came pounding on Lot’s door and demanded he give them up so they could have their way with them.”

Aziraphale brings a hand to his throat. Thankfully, Gabriel’s let go of him by now. They’re standing at the top of a small rise overlooking the city, but Gabriel doesn’t transport them to headquarters just yet. 

“That’s appalling. Savage. _Evil._”

“Correct,” says Gabriel. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Why on earth would anyone think that was acceptable behavior? Why would anyone want to do that at all?”

Gabriel spreads his hands. “Evil. What are you gonna do.”

"Still," says Aziraphale. "Perhaps it's just the city of Sodom. People seem awfully nice here--"

“Lot even offered his daughters to the mob instead, and they still wouldn't give up.”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says politely. “He did what?”

“So you see, we had no choice.”

“Er,” says Aziraphale. He clears his throat. “And, Lot gets to leave.”

“We told him to shake a leg. The LORD isn’t infinitely patient.”

“But, his daughters?”

“Oh, his whole family can go with him,” Gabriel says, shrugging. “Might be a little trouble with the wife, but domestic drama, not our department.”

“I see,” says Aziraphale. “So.” He moves the thoughts and words around his head carefully, like a puzzle. “The sin here is…rape? Yes? Which apparently only applies to, ah.” He stops himself. “…Obviously, the even more grievous sin is xenophobia. They treat the stranger with viciousness, when according to the sacred principle of hospitality, they should make him an honored guest."

“Sure,” says Gabriel, “let’s go with that.”

“But the tavern owner here was perfectly lovely to me, and he knew I was a foreigner. He even stood me a drink.”

“That’s how it starts,” Gabriel says ominously.

Aziraphale rubs his hands over his face, pressing the heels to his eyes. “No, look, wait a minute—“

There’s a rumble, quickly building to a roar. A flash of light that Aziraphale can still see behind his hands and closed lids. Gabriel puts a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s right,” he says, “don’t look.” There’s the smell of smoke, thick and gagging. The faint sound of screaming. Then—nothing. 

Aziraphale cautiously uncovers his eyes; they’re back at headquarters. Gabriel smiles (had he ever stopped?) gives Aziraphale’s shoulder another little pat, and vanishes, presumably in pursuit of more pressing business. 

Aziraphale doesn’t go down to look until much later. A white statue with a head turned back toward the white city, on the banks of a dead sea.

He doesn’t eat meat for a while after that, or salt. He tells himself it's for the sake of his blood pressure.


End file.
